


when in nazmir

by Did



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Background BDSM, Background Femdom, Other, Pastfic, UST, the blood trolls need to be kinkshamed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 13:33:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16955010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Did/pseuds/Did
Summary: Zul and Rastakhan learn about blood troll culture.





	when in nazmir

"I believe we are close the source of the timeline disturbance, my king." says Zul, grimacing as his foot sinks deeply into a hidden pocket of swamp filth. "If I am correct, the false prophet lies just over this rise."

Rastakhan grunts approvingly. "Good. I will be glad to finish this and get out of this swamp."

He casually seizes Zul by the back of his cloak, lifting him bodily out of the muck and hauling him back to firmer footing. Zul gives him a nod of thanks as his feet return to (somewhat) dry land.

"There was no need for you to attend to this matter personally, you know." says Zul, with the merest suggestion of humor. "I am sure there is plenty of work for you to do back in Zuldazar. Helping the council revise the new tax bill, for instance."

Rastakhan rewards him with a wry smile. "With all due respect, my friend, I would sooner abdicate the throne."

Zul clicks his tongue, mock-disapproving. Rastakhan is a man of many admirable qualities, but patience with bureaucracy is not one of them. Zul is of much the same opinion. It is no coincidence that they have both found an excuse to make themselves scarce during this week's council meeting.

Of course, after being forced to navigate a particularly treacherous series of rocky ridges, Zul is beginning to question the wisdom of his choice of errand. Who knew that travelling through Nazmir would require so much _climbing?_

Zul is not panting by the time he reaches the crest of the ridge, but it is a near thing. Rastakhan does not remark upon Zul’s slowness, but his lips do twitch slightly in a manner that Zul does not care for. Zul responds with a look that silently dares him to offer comment. Rastakhan shakes his head mutely and proceeds down the opposite side of the ridge, dropping nimbly from the cliff-edge into a hidden nook as easily as if he were strolling through the paved streets of Dazar’alor.

Zul may be sweaty, muddy, and chagrined at his own comparative lack of physical ability, but something about the sight of Rastakhan’s muscles - no less magnificent for being garbed in plain traveller's armor instead of gleaming ceremonial raiment - flexing and straining as he makes his descent feels like more than adequate compensation for Zul’s struggles. Somewhat less gracefully, Zul follows him down.

They crouch together behind a rocky outcrop, peering down at the Nazmani encampment below. It’s a poor excuse for a camp, in Zul’s opinion, with its many ramshackle huts and precarious-looking sentry towers teetering on stilts over the murky swamp water. The perimeter of the camp bristles with sharpened stakes, likely tipped with poison, and clouds of noxious smoke rise from scattered cauldrons that appear to be brewing something more sinister than stew. 

Zul spies a handful of blood trolls patrolling the paths, but there are fewer of them than he expected; most of their activity seems to be concentrated in the center of the camp. His hidden vantage point on the cliffside grants him an excellent view of the spectacle currently drawing their attention.

A blood troll hangs suspended by his wrists from a tree branch, his ankles bound; a group of laughing women are taking turns striking him over and over again with a switch. Shiny rivulets of blood pour down his back and drip to the muddy ground below. He is nude and writhing and shamelessly erect.

"Ah. Blood trolls and their barbaric customs." says Rastakhan, curling his lip with distaste.

"Indeed." Zul's voice comes out rougher than he intended. Rastakhan responds with a long silence that has an uncomfortably contemplative quality to it.

"...deplorable, aren't they." Rastakhan says eventually. His tone is suspiciously neutral.

"Yes. They are truly a shame on trollkind."

The beaten troll's cries of agony are rising in pitch. His thrashing, Zul cannot help but notice, has begun to take on a rhythmic, sensual quality. Zul observes with morbid fascination the way his hips buck fruitlessly into the empty air.

Zul wonders, in a strictly academic fashion, if the beating alone will be sufficient to bring the unfortunate troll to climax.

Zul wonders, in a less academic fashion, if he himself would be capable of such a thing.

The moment stretches longer and longer. Zul shifts his position as subtly as he can manage. His loin-wrap feels suddenly and inexplicably tight.

At length, Zul speaks.

“Let us proceed. While they are still distracted.” If Zul sounds slightly out of breath, he chooses to blame it on the climb. He is, after all, a scholar, and unaccustomed to such exertions.

“That would probably be best.” says Rastakhan. His expression is utterly unreadable.

Neither of them move.

The bound troll’s struggles are approaching fever pitch. At last, he arches, tense as a bowstring; his tormentors immediately withdraw their attentions, then yell and jeer at his broken cry of frustration. He slumps, defeated, and sways limply where he hangs.

(One part of him is conspicuously not limp.)

Zul forces himself to relax, feeling perversely disappointed. The air is once again filled with the obscene wet smack of switch against flesh as the women resume their work. The unresisting troll’s yelps and shouts of pain have faded into long, breathy moans.

Ah. Zul sees now what the problem is. He realizes with a thrill of horror that it is not only the victim’s wrists and ankles that are bound; his flushed, dripping... _anatomy_ is also constrained in such a way as to prevent him from achieving release. Zul has never seen any part of a troll turn such a dark shade of red.

What an awful thing to do to a troll.

What a terrible, dreadful, horrendous concept.

“...shall we move on?” says Rastakhan, his voice curiously husky. Zul does not dare make eye contact with him.

No force on Azeroth could compel Zul to stand at this moment.

"One moment, my king." he says, fighting to keep his voice impassive. "I must verify something, first."

Zul closes his eyes, flexes his willpower, and hastily engages in a series of mental exercises designed to help prisoners of war resist torture. It is an open secret among the priesthood that this particular technique is also effective for banishing unwanted...thoughts.

“She is located in the large hut in the center of the camp.” says Zul after a moment, as if this information is new to him. “Let us finish this.”

After all the trouble they have gone through to find the Nazmani blood-prophet, the end to their quest proves anticlimactic. The sight of Rastakhan tearing effortlessly through the heretic’s guards, his brutal efficiency in battle, makes Zul's stomach flip in a way that cannot be blamed entirely on squeamishness. It is like sending a devilsaur to stamp out a saurid infestation; a glorious excess.

The king hardly even needs weapons, observes Zul with a somewhat less-than-appropriate level of admiration. He is, after all, so very, _very_ strong. He could take Zul apart with his bare hands.

...that is, he is capable of taking _a troll_ apart with his bare hands. In combat. Platonically.

Zul feels all of his efforts to regain a modicum of composure crumble slowly into dust. He sighs, averts his eyes from his blood-spattered, grinning, triumphant king, and silently resigns himself to a few months of extremely troubling dreams.


End file.
